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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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CQPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 







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MY HOME 




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Copyright, 1912 
By BARSE AND HOPKINS 



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£ CI. A 31.4299 



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INTRODUCTION 

T ET this be said of Home. Upon its 
■""^ hearth blossom the sweetest flowers of 
memory, with pictures of all that made 
childhood fair gathered about it. Days of 
innocence and peace, as long as they were 
happy, sweet evenings of mirth and play, 
brief dreamless nights that were too short, 
as all the days were short for all we found 
to do, were passed beneath its roof. Here 
once we knew a mother's love, a father's 
sheltering care, the fond affection of broth- 
ers, sisters, friends, and kinsfolk dear. 
Never was spot more blest. And now, in 
riper years, once again we rear the temple, 
Home, and here we strive once more to build 
anew a shrine for those we love as, long ago, 
loving hands took from Heaven a holy fire 
to light our childhood's hearth. May every 
good of elder days be lovely in its rooms! 
and may we make for these, our little ones, 
the dreams of those, our parents, all come 
true! 

— Wallace Rice. 












MY HOME 



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TO MY HOME 

VTOW stained with dews, with cobwebs 
^ darkly hung, 

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; 
When round yon ample board, in due de- 
gree, 
We sweetened every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling 

jest; 
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the 

sound; 
And turned each blindfold hero round and 

round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring; 
And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
Giants and genii chained each wondering 

ear; 
And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear ; 
Oft with the Babes we wandered in the 

wood, 
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood. 
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, 
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend : 
The screen unfolds its many-colored chart; 
The clock still points its moral to the heart — 
That faithful monitor 'twas Heaven to hear, 
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure 

near! 
And has its sober hand, its simple chime, 
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time? 

— Samuel Rogers. 







^ 



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' 1V/TI^ pleasures and palaces though we 

^ A may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like 

home! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us 

there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met 
with elsewhere. 
Home! home! sweet, sweet home! 
There's no place like home! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 







vain: 



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Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage 



again 



The birds singing gayly that came at my 

call; — 
Give me them — and the peace of mind 

dearer than all! 



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How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's 
smile, 

And the cares of a mother to soothe and be- 
guile! 

Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to 
roam, 

But give me, oh, give me the pleasures of 
home! 



To thee I'll return, overburdened with care, 
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me 
there ; 




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MY HOME 






No more from that cottage again will I 

roam ; 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like 

home. 

— John Howard Payne. 

T~\0 they think of me at home, 
*"^ Do they ever think of me? 
I who shared their every grief, 

I who mingled in their glee? 
Have their hearts grown cold and strange 

To the one now doomed to roam, 
I would give the world to know 

Do they think of me at home? 

Do they think of me at eve? 

Of the songs I used to sing? 
Is the harp I struck untouched, 

Does a stranger wake the string? 
Will no kind forgiving word 

Come across the raging foam? 
Shall I never cease to sigh, 

"Do they think of me at home?" 




Do they think of how I loved 

In my happy, early days? 
Do they think of him who came, 

But could never win their praise? 
I am happy by his side, 

And from mine he'll never roam, 
But my heart will sadly ask, 

"Do they think of me at home?" 

— Charles W. Glover. 



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MY HONE 




Where shall that land, that spot of earth be 

found ! 
Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; 
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps 

roam, 
That land thy country, and that spot thy 

Home ! — James Montgomery. 

TV/TY neighbor hath a lordly pile — 

■** A palace reared of polished stone, 

In which he lives in lavish style, 

Alone. 
I look upon his wealth and smile 

In rare content, while on my knee 

A wee one rides and crows at me — 

My own! 
My neighbor's is a regal place; 
But oh! it hath no laughing face 

Of childhood there for sympathy. 
My neighbor hath a host of cares, 
For he must guard his costly wares 

And golden hoard ; 
While I, crowned with domestic bliss, 
May gain a fond parental kiss 

He can't afford. 
I and my neighbor never meet, 

An alley separates our lands ; 
My house is in a modest street, 

His on the Drive — see, there he stands! 
Poor man; he's nought but gold and gear; 
While I have Home — and you, my dear! 

— Bay Clarke Rose. 





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MY HOME 



VTOVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry 
^ sugh; 

The short'ning winter day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating f rae the pleugh ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- 
pose; 
The toil-worn cottar f rae his labor goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher 
through, 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and 

glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, 
His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wifie's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labor and his 
toil. 

— Robert Burns, 



B 



UT wheresoe'er I'm doomed to roam, 
I still shall say — that home is home. 

— William Combe. 











HON 

/^\H, to be home again, home again, home 
^^ again! 

Under the apple boughs, down by the 
mill; 
Mother is calling me, father is calling me, 

Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering 
Through the green meadows and over the 
hill; 
Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling 
me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 



Oh, once more to be home again, home 
again, 
Dark grows my sight, and the evening 
is chill — 
Do you not hear how the voices are calling 
me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still! 
— James Thomas Fields. 

m 




rpHERE is a sanctity in a good man's 
*■ house which cannot be renewed in every 
tenement that rises on its ruins. ... I 
say if men lived like men indeed, their houses 
would be temples — temples which we should 
hardly dare to injure, and in which it would 
make us holy to be permitted to live. 

— John Ruskin. 









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MY HOME 



/^UR old brown homestead reared its walls 
^-^ From the wayside dust aloof, 
Where the apple boughs could almost cast 

Their fruit upon its roof; 
And the cherry tree so near it grew 

That when awake I've lain 
In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs 

As they creaked against the pane : 
And those orchard trees, oh, those orchard 
trees ! 

I've seen my little brothers rocked 
In their tops by the summer breeze ! 



The sweet-brier, under the window-sill, 

Which the early birds made glad, 
And the damask rose, by the garden fence, 

Were all the flowers we had. 
I've looked at many a flower since then, 

Exotics rich and rare, 
That to other eyes were lovelier, 

But not to me so fair ; 
For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright ! 

I have twined them in my sister's locks, 
That are hid in the dust from sight. 



We had a well, a deep old well, 
Where the spring was never dry, 

And the cool drops down from the mossy 
stones 
Were falling constantly, 

And there never was water half so sweet 
As the draught that filled my cup. 








■ 






Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep 

That my father's hand set up. 
And that deep old well, oh, that deep old 
well! 

I remember now the plashing sound 
Of the bucket as it fell. 

Our homestead had an ample hearth, 

Where at night we loved to meet ; 
There my mother's voice was always kind, 

And her smile was always sweet; 
And there I've sat at my father's knee, 

And watched his thoughtful brow, 
With my childish hand in his raven hair — 

That hair is silver now! 
But that broad hearth's light, oh, that broad 
hearth's light! 
And my father's look, and my mother's 
smile, 
They are in my heart to-night ! 

— Phoebe Cary. 

A LL the Cricket tribe are potent Spirits, 
***' even though the people who hold con- 
verse with them do not know it (which is fre- 
quently the case) ; and there are not in the 
unseen world, voices more gentle and more 
true, that may be so implicitly relied on, or 
that are so certain to give none but tender- 
est counsel, as the Voices in which the Spirits 
of the Fireside and the Hearth address them- 
selves to human kind. 

— Charles Dickens. 




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MY HONE 






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SPHERE is a land, of every land the pride, 
**• Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world 

beside : 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder moons emparadise the night; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: 
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting 

shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; 
In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that 

pole ; 
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 
The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, 

friend ; 
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, 

wife, 
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of 

life! 
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 




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TJOME'S not merely four square walls, 
-*■ -■■ Though with pictures hung and 

gilded ; 
Home is where affection calls — 

Filled with shrines the heart hath builded. 
Home ! — Go, watch the faithful dove, 

Sailing 'neath the heaven above us ; 
Home is where there's one to love, 

Home is where there's one to love us. 

Home's not merely room and room, 

Needs it something to endear it ; 
Home is where the heart can bloom, 

Where there's some kind lip to cheer it. 
What is home with none to meet? 

None to welcome, none to greet us? 
Home is sweet — and only sweet 

Where there's one we love, to meet us. 

— Charles Swain. 



rpHE common things of life are all so 
A dear ! 
The waking in the warm half-gloom 
To find again the old familiar room, 
The scents and sights and sounds that never 

tire, 
The crackle of the open fire, 

The homely work, the lilt of baby's bliss, 
The waiting, then the footsteps coming near, 
The opening door, the handclasp and the 
kiss — 
Is Heaven not, after all, the Now and Here, 
The common things of life are all so dear? 



EvH 










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T WILL arise and go now, and go to In- 
A nis free. 
And a small cabin build there, of clay and 



wattles made ; 





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Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for 
the honey-bee, 
And live alone in the bee-loud glade, 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace 
comes dropping slow, 
Dropping from the veils of morning to 
where the cricket sings ; 
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a 
purple glow, 
And evening full of the linnet's wings. 



I will arise and go now, for always, night 
and day, 
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds 
by the shore; 
While I stand on the roadway, or on the 
pavements gray, 
I hear it in the deep heart's core. 

— William Butler Yeats. 



A N ear that waits to catch 
^*" A hand upon the latch ; 

A step that hastens its sweet rest to win, 
A world of care without, 
A world of strife shut out, 
A world of love shut in. 

— Dora Greenwell. 



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HONE 






A DIM veranda cool and deep, 
^*" Virginia creeper climbing o'er, 
Tall maples whence the blue- jays sweep — 
And I am a lad at home once more ; 
A sweet bird singing by the door, 

A dappled sward of sun and shade 
Which many a fragrant blossom bore: 
This is a picture Memory made. 

— Oliver Marble. 

T^ROM the gay world we'll oft retire 
■*• To our own family and fire, 

Where love our hours employs; 
No noisy neighbor enters here, 
No intermeddling stranger near, 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize, 
Within our breast this jewel lies; 

And they are fools who roam; 
The world hath nothing to bestow, 
From our own selves our bliss must flow, 

And that dear hut — our home ! 

— Nathaniel Cotton. 

npO make a happy fireside clime 
A To weans and wife — 
That's the true pathos, and sublime 

Of human life. — Robert Burns. 




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T^O have home where the heart is, it is 

A needful to have the heart where the 

home is. — E. L. Valentine. 






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"V/TAY blessings be upon your house, 
■*-" Your roof and hearth and walls! 
May there be lights to welcome you 

When evening's shadow falls! 
The love that like a guiding star 

Still signals while you roam ; 
A book, a friend — these be the things 

That make a house a Home ! 

— Myrtle Reed. 







"V/TY home has passed and gone from me 
"*" And strangers walk its holy halls, 

While I am left with Memory 

That gently, softly, sweetly calls 
Me to the love that tenanted 

One spot secure 'gainst storm and frost, 
The love that never can be dead, 

The love of home — the home I've lost ! 

— Francis Holden. 




TX7HERE we love is home, 
* * Home that our feet may leave, but 

not our hearts 
Though o'er us shines the jasper-lighted 

dome : — 
The chain may lengthen, but it never parts ! 
— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



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OIT with me by the homestead hearth, 

And stretch the hands of memory forth 
To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze! 

— John Greenleaf Whittier. 








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fMY HOM 



npHE motive of this little story, 
A Told in the land of the rising sun, 
Is a tribute from me, and a feeling 
Of thanks for a sentiment won 
Back from the scenes of my childhood, 
A reflection of earliest days, 
A rush over time and distance 
Through the cranks of life's rough ways. 
A vision of home and my mother 
Flashes out like a light in the dark, 
As I hear on this sweet May morning, 
In Japan, the voice of the lark! 




The breeze brings song of the boatmen, 
Which ebbs with the rustle of reeds ; 
The water is laughing and flashing 
To the mill with its bamboo leads, 

r While the hills across the water 
Are changing from gold to dun 



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As the fitful shadows wander 
O'er the land of the rising sun. 

But beyond the bright blue water, 

And beyond the changing hills, 

To my English home and birthplace 

I am borne by those wild trills. 

And the road and the wide green rice-fields 

And the gray-roofed cottages there, 

Melt into an English meadow 

And an English homestead fair : 

I lie again 'mid the daisies, 

Which bend in the soft-toned breeze 









JVb CO 

SW HONE 



That wafts the scent of the rich ripe flowers 
Through the branches of blooming trees. 
That's my dream while the lark was singing, 
But his song was, alas ! soon done : 
Yet the dream was fair and pleasant 
In the land of the rising sun. 

—Sir Alfred East. 



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Y the fireside there are old men seated, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 
Asking sadly 
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, 
Building castles fair with stately stairways, 

Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give them. 

By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only, 

Wife and husband, 
And above them God the sole spectator. 



By the fireside there are peace and comfort, 
Wives and children, with fair thoughtful 
faces, 

Waiting, watching, 
For a well-known footstep in the passage. 



JO 



CEEK home for rest, 
^ For home is best. 



— Thomas Tusser. 




MYMOriE 




;-• " ■ -' 



/^\H, to have a little house, 
^^ To own the hearth and stool and all- 
The heaped-up sods upon the fire, 
The pile of turf against the wall! 



To have a clock with weights and chains, 
And pendulum swinging up and down! 

A dresser filled with shining delph, 

Speckled and white and blue and brown! 

I could be busy all the day 

Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, 
And fixing on their shelf again 

My white and blue and speckled store. 



I could be quiet there at night 

Beside the fire and myself, 
Sure of a bed, and loath to leave 

The ticking clock and shining delph. 



Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, 
And roads where there 's never a house or 
bush, 
And tired I am of bog and road, 

And the crying wind and the lonesome 
hush! 

And I am praying to God on high, 
And I am praying Him night and day, 

For a little house — a house of my own — 
Out of the wind's and the rain's way. 

— Padraic Colum. 



\B 






... 

MYMOME 



''I^T'AY down upon the Swanee Ribber, 

" * Far, far away, 
Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber, 

Dare's wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation 

Sadly I roam; 
Still longing for de old plantation 

And for de old folks at home. 




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All de world am sad and dreary 

Eb'ry where I roam; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 

Far from de old folks at home. 

All round de little farm I wandered 

When I was young, 
Den many happy days I squandered, 

Many de songs I sung. 
When I was playing wid my brudder 

Happy was I ; 
Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! 

Dere let me live and die. 

One little hut among de bushes, 

One dat I love, 
Still sadly to my memory rushes, 

No matter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-humming 

All round de comb? 
When will I hear de banjo tumming, 

Down in my good old home ? 

— Stephen Collins Foster. 



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fHONE 




/^OOD-BY, 
^^ home: 



proud world! I'm going 



Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam, 

A river-ark on the ocean's brine ; 
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam ; 
But now, proud world ! I'm going home. 

Good-by to Flattery's fawning face; 
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace ; 
To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 
To supple Office, low and high; 
To crowded halls, to court and street; 
To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 
To those who go, and those who come ; 
Good-by, proud world! I'm going home. 

I am going to my own hearthstone, 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land, 
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; 
Where arches green, the livelong day, 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And vulgar feet have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, 

'VTOT bricks nor stones, though the bricks 
^ be of silver and the stones of rubies, 
make a home; but sunny smiles, helping 
hands, a warm hearth, and a cheery welcome ; 
of these alone enduring homes are built. 

— Spencer H. Allen. 






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Tmyhome 










TAEAR common flower, that grow'st be- 
*~* side the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless 
gold, 
First pledge of blithesome May, 

Which children pluck and, full of pride 
uphold, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'er joyed that 
they 
An El Dorado in the grass have found 
Which may not in the rich earth's ample 
round 
May match in wealth — thou art more dear 

to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

My childhood's thoughts are linked with 
thee; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's 
song, 
Who, from the dark old tree 

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 
And I secure in childish piety, 

Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from Heaven, which he did 
bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
When birds and flowers and I were happy 
peers. 

— James Russell Lowell. 











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ZONE'S home is his safest shelter. 

^ — Sir Edward Coke. 



.-A. 




CO ^& 

HOME? 



T>LESSED is the hearth where daugh- 

ters gird the fire, 
And sons that shall be happier than their 

sire, 
Who sees them crowd around his evening 

chair, 
While love and hope inspire his wordless 

prayer. 
Oh, from their home paternal may they 

go, 
With little to unlearn, though much to 

know! 
Them, may no poisoned tongue, no evil eye, 
Curse for the virtues that refuse to die ; 
The generous heart, the independent mind, 
Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting be- 
hind! 
May temperance crown their feast, and 

friendship share! 
May Pity come, Love's sister-spirit, there! 
May they shun baseness as they shun the 

grave ! 
May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave ! 
Sweet peace be theirs — the moonlight of the 

breast — 
And occupation, and alternate rest; 
And dear to care and thought the usual walk; 
Theirs be no flower that withers on the stalk, 
But roses cropped, that shall not bloom in 

vain ; 
And hope's blest sun, that sets to rise again. 








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MY HOME 



Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be 

sweet, 
Their floor resound the tread of little feet; 
Blest beyond fear and fate, if blest by thee, 
And heirs, O Love ! of thine Eternity. 

— Ebenezer Elliott. 



pALL him not rich who, 'neath some 

^"^ splendid dome, 

Lives, knowing not the sweet delights of 

home; 
But his the wealth, whate'er his coffers hold, 
Whose hearthstone's comfort never leaves 

him cold: 
Not by chill gold earth's happiness is won, 
Lacking a fireside, daughter, wife, and son; 
Naught save affection satisfies man's heart, 
And where, except at home, a place apart 
From buying, selling, piling wealth on 

wealth, 
Are love and gladness and the soul's true 

health? 

— Christopher Bannister. 



' I T WANT to go home!" sobbed the tired 
A little boy. "What will you do when 
you get there?" asked his father. "Why, 
why," he said triumphantly, after a mo- 
ment's hesitation, "I'll be there!" Not 
otherwise do we weary grown people look on 
Heaven. 








arm HOME 



/^H, I hae seen great anes, and sat in 

^-^ great ha's, 

'Mang lords and 'mang ladies a' covered wi' 
braws; 

At feasts made for princes, wi' princes I've 
been, 

Where the grand shine o' splendor has 
dazzled my e'en; 

But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er 
spied, 

As the bonnie, blithe blink o' my ain fire- 
side. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside! 

Oh, cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside ! 



* YX 



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Ance mair, Guid be praised! round my ain 

heartsome ingle, 
Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially 

mingle; 
Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or 

glad — 
I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when 

I'm sad; 
Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to 

fear, 
But truth to delight me, and friendship to 

cheer. 
O' a' roads to happiness ever were tried, 
There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fire- 
side! 

When I draw in my stool on my cosy hearth- 
stane, 




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CO TO; 

MYHOIiEK 



My heart loups sae light I scarce ken't for 

my ain; 
Care's down on the wind, it is clean out of 

sight, 
Past troubles they seem but as dreams o' the 

night. 
There but kind voices, kind faces I see, 
And mark saf t affection glent fond f rae ilk 

e'e; 
Nae fleechings o' flattery, nae boastings o' 

pride — 
'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain fire- 
side. 
My ain fireside, my ain fireside! 
Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain 

fireside! — Elizabeth Hamilton. 



f~* LOSER, closer, let us knit 

^ Hearts and hands together, 
Where our fireside-comforts sit 

In the wildest weather ; — 
Oh, they wander wide who roam 
For the joys of life from home! 

— James Montgomery. 

rilHE vale where my home lies, oh, none is 
A so blest! 
The mountains look down on its pure, quiet 

rest; 
The blue sky above and the valley below, 
While peace throws o'er all her heavenly 
glow. 



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CO vfC 

liYHONET 



TJOME again, home again 
A A From a foreign shore, 
And oh, it fills my soul with joy- 
To meet my friends once more. 
Here I dropped the parting tear 

To cross the ocean's foam, 
But now I'm once again with those 
Who kindly greet me home. 

Happy hearts, happy hearts 

With mine have laughed in glee, 
But oh, the friends I loved in youth 

Seem happier to me ! 
And if my guide should be the fate 

Which bids me longer roam, 
Yet death alone can break the tie 

That binds my heart to home. 



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Music sweet, music soft, 

Lingers round the place, 
And oh, I feel the childhood charms 

That time cannot efface! 
Then give me but my homestead roof — 

I'll ask no palace dome, 
For I can live a happy life 

With those I love at home. 

— Marshall Pike. 



HPO give society its highest tastes, 
A Well ordered home man's best delight 



to make. 





-James Thomson. 







£x 



MY HOMI 



HPHE grand road from the mountain goes 
A shining to the sea, 
And there is traffic on it and many a horse 
and cart, 
But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer 
far to me, 
And the little roads of Cloonagh go ram- 
bling through my heart. 

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting 
o'er the hill, 
And there is glory in it and terror on the 
wind, 
But the haunted air of twilight is very 
strange and still, 
And the little winds of twilight are dearer 
to my mind. 

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep 
storming on their way, 
Shining green and silver with the hidden 
herring shoal, 
But the little waves of Breffny have 
drenched my heart in spray, 
And the little waves of Breffny go stum- 
bling through my soul. 

—Eva Gore-Booth. 



/^UR God is a household God, as well as 
^^ a heavenly one; He has an altar in 
every man's dwelling; let men look to it 
when they rend it lightly and pour out its 
ashes. — John Buskin. 









¥.9 



MYHOMI 



TJERE sparrows build upon the trees, 
A A And stockdove hides her nest ; 
The leaves are winnowed by the breeze 

Into a calmer rest: 
The blackcap's song was very sweet, 

That used the rose to kiss; 
It made the Paradise complete : 

My early home was this. 

The redbreast from the sweetbrier bush 

Dropped down to pick the worm ; 
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush, 

O'er the house where I was born; 
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, 

Fell o'er this bower of bliss, 
And on the bench sat boys and girls: 

My early home was this. 

The old house stooped just like a cave, 

Thatched o'er with mosses green ; 
Winter around the walls would rave, 

But all was calm within ; 
The trees are here all green again, 

Here bees the flowers still kiss, 
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: 

My early home was this. 

— John Clare, 

f~\ FOR an hour in that dear place! 
^^ O for the peace of that dear time ! 
O for that childish trust sublime! 
O for a glimpse of mother's face! 

— Eugene Field. 









i7my irnMr 



CO many, many roads lie traced 
^ Where wanderers may stray — 
Roads twining, weaving, interlaced, 

Roads sorrowful and gay. 
Running through countryside and town 

They climb the mountain steep, 
Through storied realms of far renown 

Unceasingly they creep. 
When silver moonlight floods the nights — 

O hark! across the sea, 
These roads, the wanderer's delights, 

Are calling you and me, 
Singing their challenge sweet and clear 

For wanderers to roam; 
But, all at once, I only hear 

The road that leads me home! 

— Alice Cory. 





rilHERE is rain upon the window, 

A There is wind upon the tree ; 

The rain is slowly sobbing, 

The wind is blowing free: 

It bears my weary heart 

To my own country. 

— Duncan Campbell Scott, 



, \717'HEN men do not love their hearths, 
nor reverence their thresholds, it is a 
sign that they have dishonored both. 

— John Rffitkin. 





Mrs. 








MYMOME 



BREATHES there the man, with soul so 
dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 
This is my own, my native land ! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 
From wandering on a foreign strand! 
If such there be, go, mark him well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 
Despite these titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentered all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from which he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

— Sir Walter Scott. 



AH, no ! though I wander, all sad and 
- ** forlorn, 

In a far distant land, yet shall memory 
trace, 
When far o'er the ocean's white surges I'm 
borne, 
The scene of past pleasures — my own 
native place. 

— John Greenleaf Whittier. 



1 IJU r ITHOUT hearts there is no home. 
* * — Lord Byron. 





& 




Jfc# 



CO 





mr home 

THOSE evening bells! those evening 
bells! 
How many a tale their music tells, 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime! 



Those joyous hours are passed away; 
And many a heart that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 






And so 'twill be when I am gone, — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 

— Thomas Moore. 

TN the tree is a nest 

"*■ Where a mother-bird hovers, 

With a song in her breast. 

In the tree is a nest ; 

And is this not the best 

For birds or for lovers ? 
In the tree is a nest 

Where a mother-bird hovers. 

— Ray Clarke Rose. 

\^7E stretch our hands, we lift a joyful 
** cry, 

Words of all words the sweetest — "Wel- 
come Home!" 

— Anne Rothwell Christie. 





%/U 



yym hot 



w 




'HEN evening comes and the stars are 
fair, 
Though the wind blow chill and the wind 
blow high; 
When far and near the city's flare 

And glamour the twinkling dome outvie; 
Above, the moon winks a merry eye; 
Below, the lights show fine and free; 

Then to my home my glad thoughts fly — 
This is the best of life for me. 



The corner turned, through the wintry air 
The windows of my home I spy ; 

And all the city's glint and glare 
Fades, and its glories dim and die 
Before this modest glow anigh. 

What are they all to the love I see 

With clearer flame their flame defy? — 

This is the best of life for me. 

Here is my home, and its altars bear 

All the blossoms that Heaven ally 
To this our earth; for everywhere 

Is love and peace to vivify 

My heart and hope. With a happy cry 
My darling comes in her gentle glee, 

With a kiss and caress and contented 
sigh — 
This is the best of life for me. 

Kind Heaven, which doth firmly tie 
My heaven at home to thoughts of thee, 



ftfftf 




c& 



NOT 



Mf 




^i 




r 




^MY HOMEI 



This is a Paradise under the sky, 
This is the best of life for me. 

— John Jarvis Holden. 

BETWEEN the hills, between the hills, 
^ Across wide fields just turning brown, 
With here and there a purling stream 

And here and there a quiet town, 
We rush along and rush along 

And never pause to wait and sleep, 
With one strong hand to guide us on, 

And one calm eye a watch to keep. 

And here a field of golden corn, 

And there a meadow rich with grass, 
And next a grove of trees that stand 

Like sentinels to watch us pass ; 
A little rippling brook to cross, 

A towering field of stubble sod, 
And passing like a gleam of light 

A flaming field of goldenrod. 



We whirl along and whirl along 

And leave the streams and vales behind, 
Till daylight dies beyond the hills 

And night comes swiftly on the wind. 
Then out from many a farm and town 

The home-lights twinkle, flash, and glow, 
They smile a benediction sweet 

And gleam upon me as I go. 

Speed on, you iron horse of might ! 
You cannot reach the goal too soon, 







vv 



MY HOME 



^ 






Speed on, through darkness of the night, 
And pause not till the earth is run. 

Until among the faces strange 
A dear familiar one I see, 

And all the journeying safely o'er, 
My own home-light shall shine for me. 

TV /TAN'S heart is like the moon, and shin- 
A eth not its brightest, and sometimes 
shineth not at all, except the light and 
warmth of home be on it. 

— Cecil de Groot. 







YXT HERE I am, all think me happy, 
* * For so well I play my part, 
None can guess, who smile around me, 

How far distant is my heart — 
Far away, in a poor cottage, 

Listening to the dreary sea, 
Where the treasures of my life are, 
Where I fain would be. 

— Adelaide Anne Procter, 

TNVITE the eye to see and heart to feel 
The beauty and the joy within their 
reach — 
Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes 
Of nature free to all. 

— John Greenleaf Whittier. 

lV/TAY you be happy, you and your life 
and your own home. 

— Cato, 







£) 







MY HOME 







TjlTHY should we seek at all to gain 
* * By vigils, and in pain, 
By lonely life and empty heart, 
To set a soul apart 
Within a cloistered cell, 
For whom the precious, homely hearth would 
serve as well? 

There, with the early breaking morn, 
Ere quite the day is born, 
The lustral waters flow serene, 
And each again grows clean; 
From sleep, as from a tomb, 
Born to another dawn of joy, and hope, 
and doom. 

There through the sweet and toilsome day, 
To labor is to pray; 
There love with kindly beaming eyes 
Prepares the sacrifice; 
And voice and innocent smile 
Of childhood do our cheerful liturgies be- 
guile. 

There, at his chaste and frugal feast, 
Love sitteth as a Priest; 
And with mild eyes and mien sedate, 
His deacons stand and wait ; 
And round the holy table 
Paten and chalice range in order serviceable. 

And when ere night, the vespers said, 
Low lies each weary head, 





on 



MY U0METS 




What giveth He who gives them sleep, 
But a brief death less deep ? 
Or what the fair dreams given 
But ours who, daily dying, dream a happier 
heaven. 

Then not within a cloistered wall 
Will we expend our days; 
But dawns that break and eves that fall 
Shall bring their dues of praise. 
This best befits a Ruler always near, 
This duteous worship mild, and reasonable 
fear. — Sir Lewis Morris. 








V. 



HP HE dark gray o' gloamin', 

The lone leafy shaw, 
The eoo o' the cushat, 

The scent o' the haw; 
The brae o' the burnie 

A' bloomin' in flower, 
An' twa faithfu' lovers, 

Make ae happy hour. 

A kind winsome wifie, 

A clean cantie hame, 
An' smilin' sweet babies, 

To lisp the dear name ; 
Wi' plenty o' labor, 

An' health to endure, 
Make time to round out ay 

The ae happy hour. 

— Alexander Laing. 



8S 



1@H 



(3 




MYHOME 










• 



'VT'ES, when thy heart in its pride would 
A stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 
When the sullying breath of the world would 

come 
O'er the flowers it brought from the child- 
hood's home; 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made, 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
And the kindly spell shall have power once 
more. — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

VTOTHING more than this 
-^ I ask of life: 
Quiet, the lasting peace 

Afar from strife; 
Love, a holy fire 

On my own hearth; 
Home, where never tire 

The sweets of earth — 
These alone are true: 
Home, peace, my dear, and you! 
— John Jarvis Holden. 

YX7 HERE is now the merry party I re- 
" member long ago, 
Laughing round the Christmas fireside, 

brightened by its ruddy glow 
Or in summer's balmy evenings, in the field 

upon the hay? 
They have all dispersed and wandered far 

away, far away. — M. Lindsay. 





1 1 









.... ■ .. . 

MY HOME 



f\ MEMORY, be sweet to me— 
^^ Take, take all else at will, 
So thou but leave me safe and sound, 
Without a token my heart to wound, 
The little house on the hill! 

Take all of best from east to west, 

So thou but leave me still 
The chamber, where in the starry light, 
I used to lie awake at night 

And list to the whip-poor-will. 

Take violet-bed, and rose tree red, 
And the purple flags by the mill, 
The meadow gay, and the garden-ground, 
But leave, oh, leave me safe and sound 
The little house on the hill! 

The daisy lane, and the dove's low plain, 

And the cuckoo's tender bill, 
Take one and all, but leave the dreams 
That turned the rafters to golden beams, 

In the little house on the hill ! 

The gables brown, they have tumbled down, 

And dry is the brook by the mill; 
The sheets I used with care to keep 
Have wrapped my dead for the last long 
sleep, 
In the valley, low and still. 

But, Memory, be sweet to me, 
And build the walls at will, 
Of the chamber where I used to mark, 






\ 3 I 
















MY HONE 



So softly rippling over the dark, 
The song of the whip-poor-will ! 

Ah, Memory, be sweet to me ! 

All other fountains chill; 
But leave that song so weird and wild, 
Dear as its life to the heart of the child, 

In the little house on the hill! 

— Alice Gary. 



TN all my wanderings round this world of 

care, 
In all my griefs* — and God has given my 

share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me 

down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose. 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned 

skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns 

pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she 

flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations passed, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

— Oliver Goldsmith. 



tm 



m 



MY HOME? 





npHE mother-heart doth yearn at even- 
1 tide, 
And, wheresoe'er the straying ones may 

roam, 
When even cometh on they all fare home. 
'Neath feathered sheltering the brood doth 
hide; 
In eager flights the birds wing to their nest, 
While happy lambs and children miss the 

sun, 
And to the folds do hurtle one by one, 
As night doth gather slowly in the west. 
All ye who hurry through life's busy day, 
Hark to the greeting that the Ages tell, 
"The sun doth rise and set, hail and fare- 
well." 
But comfort ye your heart where'er ye stray, 
For those who through this little day do 

roam, 
When even cometh on shall all fare home. 
— Lucy Evangeline Tilley. 




HHHIS fond attachment to the well-known 
A place 
Whence first we started into life's long race, 
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, 
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. 

— William Cowper. 

VTONE love their country but who love 
^ their home. 

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



f 



m 




MY HON 



i* 




m 



TTAVE you ever thought, when night 

A A comes down 

And quiet falls on the busy town, 

When the evening lights spring into glow 

And toward their homes the myriads go, 

Of that other, better, holier light 
That gushes forth so clear and bright 
In a hundred thousand happy rooms, 
And fair as the first spring-blossom blooms? 

See! here the new- wed husband comes — 
With a joy in her heart like the beat of 

drums, 
His bride goes forth with a love-lit kiss — 
And the world's agleam with their wedded 

bliss! 

And here a laughing father meets 
His little ones in the lamp-lit streets ; 
And from his heart and eyes the smile 
Lights up the town for many a mile. 

Here is a maiden, back from work; 
And a mother's greeting, wherein lurk 
Fond glints of love, awaits for her; 
And the town is brighter, lovelier ! 

The lights of town, the lights of town, 
Are bright when evening soft comes down ; 
But brighter the altar-lights of home, 
Lit with love from Heaven's dome ! 

— Christopher Bannister. 



~W 














MY HOME 

8 8MH frliiiM WrTlff ArTirar i 








TTIS hame a hame o' happiness 
A A And kindly love may be ; 
And mony a nameless dwelling-place 

Like his we still may see. 
His happy altar-hearth so bright 

Is ever blazing there ; 
And cheerfu' faces round it set 

Are an unending prayer. 

The poor man in his humble hame, 

Like God, who dwells aboon, 
Makes happy hearts around him there, 

Sae joyfu' late and soon. 
His toil is sair, his toil is lang; 

But weary nights and days, 
Hame — happiness akin to his — 

A hundred-fauld repays. 

— Robert Nicoll. 

HPHERE'S a strange something which, 

without a brain, 
Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't 

explain, 
Planted in man, to bind him to that earth, 
In dearest ties, from whence he drew his 

birth. — Charles Churchill. 




i 




T befits those who are happy at home to 
remain there. — Latin Proverb. 



'HEN a woman sings, she is at home. 

— Proverb. 






^v 



MY HONE 



-:s 




.,. . .- 





TV/TINE be a cot beside the hill; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 
With many a fall, shall linger near. 

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter near her clay-built nest ; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my iv*ed porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church beneath the trees, 
Where first our marriage- vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

— Samuel Rogers. 



p) Y six-and-thirty a man should have 
*~^ made himself a home and a good name 
to live by. — Robert Louis Stevenson. 



TJOME is home, though it be never so 
•*- *• homely. — Proverb. 





\K7HY am I, Mother, far from thee? 
* * Far from the frost enchantment, and 
the woods 
Jeweled from bough to bough? O Home, 
my Home! — David Gray. 



'aim; 




mi 



rXVWR, here in England I'm helpin' wi' 

^^ the hay, 

An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong 

day; 
Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the 

wheat! 
Och ! Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it. 



7£tf 



There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyant 

the heavy trees, 
This livin' air is moithered wi' the hummin' 

of the bees ; 
I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go run- 

nin' through the heat 
Past Corrymeela wi' the blue sky over it. 






i 




Vu-S 






o 



The people that's in England is richer than 

the Jews, 
There's not the smallest young gossoon but 

thravels in his shoes ! 
I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a 

barefut child, 
Och, Corrymeela an' the low south wind. 

Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so 

full o' care, 
By the luck o' love ! I'd still go light for all 

I did go bare. 
"God save ye, colleen dhas," I said: the girl 

she thought me wild! 
Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind. 




x: 



Wt 



D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mor- 

tial hard to raise, 
The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are 

illtoplase; 
When oncet I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis 
<S^ I'll be back again— 

Aye, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. 

The puff o' smoke from one ould roof be- 
fore an English Town! 

For a shaugh with Andy Feelan here I'd 
give a silver crown, 

For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the 
like in vain, 

Sweet Gorrymeela, an' the same soft rain. 

— Moira O'Neill 

TTAME, hame, hame, O hame I fain 

A would be, 
O, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf 

is on the tree, 
The larks shall sing me hame in my ain 

countrie. 

Hame, hame, hame, O hame I fain would be, 
Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! 

— Allan Ctmningham. 



WH 



A FAR or near, 
^** Home is dear. 

— Old Saying. 




vv 






HONE 




T Naples is a garden by the sea, 
Warmed with the lavish splendor of 
the sun, 
And filled, from wall to wall, with wanto 

growth 
Of roses, white and crimson in their bloom. 
A broken fountain spills a slender stream 
Of limpid water from its crumbling brim; 
And a fair naiad, fallen from her throne, 
Lies smiling, in her green nest of the grass, 
At the young violets crowding round her 

knee. 
There, when the days are still, and glad con- 
tent 
Gathers her happy children to her heart, 
I sit alone, to feel the healing sun 
Send its warm pulses through my veins like 

wine, 
Finding in birds, and bees, and fearless 

things, 
That come and go along the tangled ways, 
Good company, to cheer my solitude. 
But when mine ear, attent to finest sounds, 
Hears in the blossom-laden boughs o'erhead 
The plaintive jargon of the toiling bees, 
And when, through all the heavy-scented 

air, 
The faint, pervasive breath of violets near 
Steals like a dream of some remembered 

bliss, 
Oh, then the blue sea and the bluer sky 
Fade into gray, behind a mist of tears, 









m 



MY HOME 



Through which I see our rugged orchard- 
trees, 
Flushed with the tender beauty of the May, 
Where robins build, and chide the oriole, 
That in and out, among the drifted blooms, 
Repeats his golden syllable of song, 
Till my heart wakes with one tumultuous 

throb, 
And, filled with longing, cries for home and 
thee! 

— 'Emily Huntington Miller. 







¥ 



TTOW sweet it were, if without feeble 

n fright, 

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 

An angel came to us, and we could bear 

To see him issue from the silent air 

At evening in our room, and bend on ours 

His divine eyes, and bring us from his 

bowers 
News of dear friends, and children who have 

never 
Been dead indeed, — as we shall know for- 
ever. 
Alas ! we think not what we daily see 
About our hearths, — angels, that are to be, 
Or may be, if they will, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, — 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart 

sings 
In unison with ours, breeding its future 
wings. — Leigh Hunt. 





fWi 



r Iff/ 




\A/E have gone down to the sea 
" With her brine on our fearless lips, 

From her grasp we have laughed us free 
When she raged for her tithe of ships; 
Unmoved at the feet of Death 

We have fought her seething foam ; 
But now we choke with the quick-drawn 
breath ; 
We are rounding in towards home ! 






m 









There 's a glint of gold in the southern sky 

And the luring spice winds croon 
From lands in a zone o' sun that lie 

In a golden afternoon; 
But far and away where the gray clouds 
frown 
There's harbor for sails that roam ; 
And sweeter than song the gulls scream 
down 
The brine-burned winds of home. 

— Edith Pratt Dickens. 



« 



TTOME, that place which none falter to 
A A enter, and which all are loath to leave. 

— F. C. Harbour. 



HPHERE are no times like the old times — 
A they shall never be forgot! 
There is no place like the old place — keep 
green the dear old spot! 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 





Y HOME 



\\ J~Ea may rove the wide world o'er, 
* * But we ne'er shall find a trace 
Of the home we loved of yore, 

Of the old familiar place; 
Other scenes may be as bright, 

But we miss, 'neath alien skies, 
Both the welcome and the light 

Of the old, kind, loving eyes. 
Home is home, of this bereft, 

Memory loves again to trace 
All the forms of those we left 

In the old familiar place. 



*Tf 



( ,t 







We may sail o'er every sea, 

But we still shall fail to find 
Any spot so dear to be 

As the one we left behind; 
Words of comfort we may hear 

But they cannot touch the heart, 
Like the tones, to memory dear, 

Of the friends from whom we part. 
Home is home, the wanderer longs 

All the scenes of youth to trace 
And to hear the old home songs 

In the dear familiar place. 

— Charles W. Glover. 



HHHOUGH home be but homely, 

Yet housewife is taught 
That home hath no fellow 
To such as have aught. 

— Thomas Tusser. 



-r-*r 






HOMET 




T T did not happen to me to be born in a log- 
A cabin; but my elder brothers and sisters 
were born in a log-cabin, raised among the 
snowdrifts of New Hampshire at a period 
so early that when the smoke first rose from 
its rude chimney there was no similar evi- 
dence of a white man's habitation between 
it and the settlements on the rivers of 
Canada. 

Its remains still exist ; I make it an annual 
visit. I carry my children to it, to teach 
them the hardships endured by the genera- 
tions which have gone before them. I love 
to dwell on the tender recollections, the kin- 
dred ties, the early affections, and the touch- 
ing narratives and incidents which mingle 
with all I know of this primitive family 
abode. 

I weep to think that none of those who 
inhabited it are now among the living; and 
if I ever am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail 
in affectionate veneration for him who 
reared it and defended it against savage 
violence and destruction, cherished all the 
domestic virtues beneath its roof, and, 
through the fire and blood of a seven years* 
revolutionary war, shrunk from no danger, 
no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country and 
to raise his children to a condition better 
than his own, may my name, and the name 
of my posterity, be blotted forever from the 
memory of mankind! 

— Daniel Webster. 




1 







fr&ri 




iQ 






CO 

HOME* 









V 



O EMOTE, unfriended, solitary, slow, 
A ^ Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering 

Po, 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the 

door; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies : 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untraveled fondly turns to thee; 
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening 

chain. 



Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints at- 
tend: 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests re- 
tire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening 

fire; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty 

crowned, 

Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never 

fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

— Oliver Goldsmith. 












lVffV 1 



40ME 



^d 



3) 







TT APPY the man, whose wish and care 

A A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground. 



Whose herds with milk, whose fields with 

bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 







cM 



Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
Together mixed; sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation 



Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 
Thus unlamented let me die; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

— Alexander Pope. 

TKTELL, then I now do plainly see, 
* * This busy world and I shall ne'er 
agree, 
The very honey of all earthly joy 
Does of all meats the soonest cloy: 
And they, methinks, deserve my pity 




SfV 



¥\ 



k<\J 



MY HON 




Who for it can endure the stings, 

The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings, 

Of this great hive, the City. 



Ah! yet, e'er I descend to the grave, 

May I a small house and large garden have ! 

And a few friends, and many books, both 

true, 
Both wise, and both delightful too! 
And since Love-ne'er will from me flee, 
A mistress moderately fair, 
And good as guardian angels are, 
Only beloved, and loving me ! 

— Abraham Cowley. 



/^\H, Hesperus, thou bringest all good 
^^ things — 

Home to the weary, to the hungry, cheer, 
To the young bird the parent's brooding 
wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer! 
Whate'er. of peace about our hearthstone 
clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of 
dear, 

Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's 
breast. — Lord Byron. 

rpHE many make the household, 
•*■ But only one the home. 

— James Russell Lowell. 

(J2> -CTJ 



%m 









1 1 VI 



P> Y the gathering round the winter hearth, 
When twilight called unto household 
mirth; 
By the fairy tale or the legend old 
In that ring of happy faces told; 
By the quiet hour when hearts unite 
In the parting prayer and the kind good- 
night; 
By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 
Over thy life has a spell been thrown. 

— Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

i^LDER hearts may have their sorrows, 
^-^ Griefs that quickly die away, 
But a mother lost in childhood 

Grieves the heart from day to day; 
We miss her kind, her willing hand, 

Her fond and earnest care; 
And oh ! how dark is life around us, 

What is home without her there? 

— Alice Hawthorne. 

/^\NCE granted to each of us in turn a 
^^ good spouse, good children, and a good 
home, and the need for statesmen and sol- 
diers, prelates and police, would be gone for- 
ever. — Thurman Santley. 

HP HE bud comes back to summer, 
*■ And the blossom to the bee; 
But I'll win back, oh, never, 
To my ain countrie. 

— Allan Cunningham. 




m 




fi&NE 








Ti/T Y son, thou wilt dream the earth is fair, 
* *■ And thy spirit will sigh to roam — 
And thou must go; — but never, when there, 
Forget the light of home! 

Though Pleasure may smile with a ray more 
bright, 
It dazzles to lead astray; 
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the 
night 
When treading thy lonely way : 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame, 

And pure as vestal fire; 
'Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same, 

For Nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of Ambition is tempest-tossed, 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam : 

When sails are shivered and compass lost, 
Then look to the light of home ! 

The sun of Fame may gild the name, 
But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; 

And Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, 
Are beams of a wintry day: 







I 






m 



How cold and dim those beams would be, 
Should life's poor wanderer come! — 

My son, when the world is dark to thee, 
Then turn to the light of home. 

— Sarah Jane Hale. 












MY HOME 



HP HE clock is on the stroke of six, 

The father's work is done; 
Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire, 

And put the kettle on: 
The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 
'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold. 

He is crossing o'er the wold apace, 
He is stronger than the storm ; 

He does not feel the cold, not he, 
His heart it is so warm ; 

For father's heart is stout and true 

As ever human bosom knew. 



m 




He makes all toil, all hardship, light ; 

Would all men were the same ! 
So ready to be pleased, so kind, 

So very slow to blame ! 
Folks need not be unkind, austere, 
For love hath readier will than fear. 




Nay, do not close those shutters, child, 

For far along the lane 
The little window looks, and he 

Can see its shining plain ; 
I've heard him say he loves to mark 
The cheerful firelight, through the dark. 

And we'll do all that father likes ; 

His wishes are so few; 
Would they were more ; that every hour 

Some wish of his I knew! 



fm 



ft I J 



I'm sure it makes a happy day, 
When I can please him any way. 

I know he's coming by this sign, 

That baby's almost wild, 
See how he laughs and crows and stares — 

Heaven bless the merry child! 

His father's self in face and limb, 

And father's heart is strong in him. 

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now, 

He's through the garden gate; 
Run, little Bess, and ope the door, 

And do not let him wait. 
Shout, baby, shout ! and clap thy hands, 
For father on the threshold stands. 

— Mary Howitt. 

l\/f AN knows but two homes — that of his 
A childhood, and that of his children. 

— Oliver Marole. 

rilHE first sure symptom of a mind in 
1 health 

Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home. 

— Edward Young, 

A LL right living and loving has a home 
"** in view. 

— Clement V. Zane. 

TTOME is dear, home is best. 

— Greek Proverb. 



n$ 






MY HOME 



■MHBBHHI 





TJ O W tired one grows of a rainy day, 
**■ For a rainy day brings back so much ; 

Old dreams revive that are buried away, 
And the past comes back to the sight and 
touch. 



When the night is short and the day is long, 
And the rain falls down with ceaseless 
beat, 

We tire of our thoughts as we tire of a song 
That over and over is played in the street. 

When I woke this morning and heard the 
splash 
Of the rain-drop over the tall elm's leaves, 
I was carried back in a lightning flash 
To the dean old home with the sloping 
eaves. 

And you and I, in the garret high, 
Were playing again at hide-go-seek; 

And bright was the light of your laughing 
eye, 
And rich the glow of your rounded cheek. 

Wealth and honor and fame may come, — 
They cannot replace what is taken away; 

There is no other home like the childhood's 
home, 
There is no other love like the love of May. 

Though the sun is bright in the midday skies, 










CO 

MY HONE 




There cometh an hour when the sad heart 
grieves 
With a lonely wail, like a lost child's cry, 
For the trundle-bed and the sloping eaves; 

When, with vague unrest and nameless pain, 
We hunger and thirst for a voice and 
touch 
That we never on earth shall know again — 
Oh, a rainy day brings back so much ! 

— Anonymous. 

TN the downhill of life, when I find I'm 
A declining, 

May my fate no less fortunate be, 
That a snug elbow-chair will afford for re- 
clining, 

And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea! 



With a porch at my door, both for shelter 

and shade too, 
As the sunshine or rain may prevail, 
And a small spot of ground for the use of 

the spade too, 
With a barn for the use of the flail ! 

From the bleak northern blast may my cot 
be completely 
Secured by a neighboring hill ; 
And at night may repose steal upon me more 
sweetly 
By the sound of a murmuring rill! 

— John Collins. 







I 









/^H, the auld house, the auld house! 
^^ What though the rooms were wee? 
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, 

And bairnies fu' o' glee! 
The wild rose and the jessamine 

Still hang upon the wa' : 
How many cherished memories 

Do they sweet flowers reca\ 

The mavis still doth sweetly sing, 

The bluebells sweetly blaw ; 
The bonnie Earn's clear winding still, 

But the auld house is awa'. 
The auld house, the auld house! 

Deserted though ye be, 
There ne'er can be a new house 

Will seem sae fair to me. 

— Lady Caroline Nairne. 



w 



HEN brothers leave the old hearth- 
stone 

And go, each one, a separate way, 
We think, as we go on alone 

Along our pathway, day by day, 
Of olden scenes and faces dear, 

Of voices that we miss so much ; 
And memory brings the absent near, 

Until we almost feel the touch 
Of loving hands, and hear once more 

The dear old voices ringing out, 
As in that happy time of yore, 

Ere life had caught a shade of doubt. 



C?3k 




^jTNY if AMI 




TJEARTS and homes 
A A pleasure, 

Music breathing as ye fall; 
Making each the other's treasure, 

Once divided, losing all. 
Homes, ye may be high or lowly, 
Hearts alone can make you holy ; 
Be the dwelling e'er so small, 
Having love, it boasteth all. 



sweet words of 




M 



Hearts and homes, sweet words revealing 

All most good and fair to see ; 
Fitting shrines for purest feeling, 

Temples meet to bend the knee. 
Infant hands bright garlands wreathing, 
Happy voices incense breathing, 
Emblems fair of realms above — 
For love is Heaven, and Heaven is love ! 

— J. BlocMey. 




HHHE parted bosom clings to wonted 
A home, 

If aught, that's kindred, cheer the welcome 
hearth. 

— Lord Byron. 

"C^OR, after all, the true pleasures of home 
A are not without, but within, and the do- 
mestic man who loves no music so well as his 
own kitchen clock and the airs which the 
logs sing to him as they burn on the hearth, 
has solaces which others never dream of. 

— Lord Avebury. 



V¥U 



sn—jBO-. ■ 






22 








MY HOME 






■f^THERE burns the loved heart brightest, 

* * Cheering the social breast? 
Where beats the fond heart lightest, 

Its humblest hope possessed? 
Where is the hour of sadness 

With meek-eyed patience borne, 
Worth more than that of gladness 

Which mirth's bright cheek adorn? 
Pleasure is marked by fleetness 

To those who ever roam, 
While grief itself has sweetness 

At Home! dear home! 

There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visits when most brief ; 
There eyes in all their splendor 

Are vocal to the heart, 
And glances gay or tender 

Fresh eloquence impart; 
Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure? 

Oh, do not widely roam, 
But seek that hidden treasure 

At Home! dear home! 

— Bernard Barton. 






HP HERE are women who can make a 
** cabin in a ship, a room in a hotel, even 
a section in a car, look like home. These, 
whether they be ladies or toilers, have the 
true woman's heart. — Clement V. Zane. 




A /I 




•■■- ■ - ■• - 






MY HOME 







O BROTHERS and sisters, growing 
old, 
Do you all remember yet 
That home, in the shade of the rustling trees, 
Where once our household met? 

Do you know how we used to come from 
school, 

Through the summer's pleasant heat; 
With the yellow fennel's golden dust 

On our tired little feet? 




V* 





And how sometimes in an idle mood 

We loitered by the way ; 
And stopped in the woods to gather flowers 

And in the fields to play; 

Till warned by the deepening shadows fall, 

That told of the coming night, 
We climbed to the top of the last, long hill, 

And saw our home in sight ! 

And, brothers and sisters, older now 

Than she whose life is o'er, 
Do you think of the mother's loving face, 

That looked from the open door? 

Alas, for the changing things of time; 

That home in the dust is low; 
And that living smile was hid from us, 

In the darkness, long ago ! 



! 



Z3?«£^22rr 




MY HOT" 





And we have come to life's last hill, 

From which our weary eyes 
Can almost look on the home that shines 

Eternal in the skies. 

So, brothers and sisters, as we go, 

Still let us move as one, 
Always together keeping step, 

Till the march of life is done. 

For that mother, who waited for us here, 

Wearing a smile so sweet, 
Now waits on the hills of Paradise 

For her children's coming feet ! 

— Phoebe Cary. 




w 



E are all here! 
Father, mother, 
Sister, brother, 
All who hold each other dear; 
Each chair is filled — we're all at home. 
To-night let no cold stranger come : 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we're found : 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot, 
For once be every care forgot; 
Let gentle Peace assert her power 
And kind Affection rule the hour; 

We're all — all here. — Charles Sprague. 







A 




HOUSE is great through its size, a 
home mighty through its love. 

— John Jarvis Holden. 





__ MYHOHEf 

I SIT and smile at my window on the snow, 
** While February shrieks and the chill 
northers blow; 
I am home, I am home. 
And my log fire burns and hearts are beat- 
ing warm 
While I smile at the winter and February's 
storm — 
I am home! 



I sit and smile at my window on the bloom 
Of the pale apple-blossoms whose fragrance 
fills the room ; 
I am home, I am home. 
And the perfume of the flowers leaves my 

heart as light to-day 
As it did years agone in some half- forgotten 
May — 
I am home ! 



I sit and smile at my window on the heat 
That stirs and boils below in the parched and 
dusty street; 
I am home, I am home. 
And the faithful pane withholds the fierce 

July 
As it did the gusty winter with December 
in the sky — 
I am home ! 

I sit and smile at my window on the wind 
That blows the yellow apple-leaves and 
makes the passer blind ; 






MY HOME 




[J 



I am home, I am home. 
The autumn gusts and summer heat and fra- 
grant vernal flowers 
Gleam in my new-lit fire aglow with naught 
hut happy hours — 
I am home! 

I sit and smile at my window on the world, 
Its sin and grime are naught, the while with 
peace impearled, 
I am home, I am home. 
The sweetest Paradise that's given to worn 

and weary men 
Is mine the happy twelvemonth through — 
aye, mine forever, when 
I am home. 

— E. L. Valentine. 











THINKING of old times, hopes ne'er to 
be, 
Speaking of old friends, far o'er the sea ; 
Distance can change not dear ones like you ; 
Fortunes estrange not hearts that are true. 
Thus in the twilight fond thoughts will stray 
Back to the old homes, homes far away. 

— J. B. Thomas. 



/^\NE daily thankgiving should be said in 
^-^ every happy home: That there is a 
happy home in which to say it. 

— Sherman S. Wood. 









:eO 



MY HOME 















TTOW dear to this heart are the scenes of 
A *■■ my childhood 
When fond recollection presents them to 
view! — 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
wildwood, 
And every loved spot which my infancy 
knew! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that 
stood by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the cata- 
ract fell, 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the 
well. . . 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to 
receive it 
As poised on the curb it inclined to my 
lips! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me 
to leave it, 
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habi- 
tation, 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As Fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 








8 








? MY MOMET 



The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in the 
well. 

— Samuel Woodworth. 

fcPft 

np HE dearest spot of earth to me 
A Is home, sweet home ; 
The fairy land I've longed to see 

Is home, sweet home ; 
There how charmed the sense of hearing, 
There where hearts are so endearing, 
All the world is not so cheering, 

As home, sweet home ! 

I've taught my heart the way to prize 

My home, sweet home ; 
I've learned to look with lover's eyes 

On home, sweet home ; 
There where vows are truly plighted, 
There where hearts are so united, 
All the world beside I've slighted 

For home, sweet home. 

— W. T. Wrighton. 

M ■ ( S^ 

IFE'S simplest things are love, and 
ij kindly friends, 
Nature's sweet charm of earth and sea and 
sky; 
Gladness of soul that with right living 
blends, — 
Home's dear content, so cheap that all 
may buy. 

— Ripley D. Saunders. 









my uonimi 

"VTOW stir the fire, and close the shutters 
-^ fast, 

Let fall the curtain, wheel the sofa round, 
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn 
Throws up a streamy column, and the cups 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest. 
I crown thee King of intimate delights, 
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 

How calm is my recess ! and how the frost 
Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear 
The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! 

— William Cowper. 

T ET others dream of pleasant lands 
•""^ Beyond the stormy ocean, 
Of golden treasure in the sand, 

And air in gentle motion ; 
There is a dearer, happier scene 

To fancy oft appearing, 
It is my native valley's green, 

With beauty mildly cheering. 

C. Johnson. 




HPHE fireside wisdom that enrings, 
A With light from Heaven, familiar 
things. — James Russell Lowell. 



4 










£ 




ORD, thou hast given me a cell, 
*-** Wherein to dwell; 

A little house, whose humble roof 

Is weather proof; 
Under the spars of which I lie 

Both soft and dry; 
Where thou, my chamber for to ward, 

Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 

Me, while I sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate ; 

Both void of state; 
And yet the threshold of my door, 

Is worn by th' poor, 
Who, thither come, and freely get 

Good words, or meat. 
Like as my parlor, so my hall 

And kitchen's small; 
A little buttery, and therein 

A little bin, 

Which keeps my little loaf of bread 

Unchipt, unflead; 
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar 

Make me a fire, 
Close by whose living coal I sit, 

And glow like it. 
Lord, I confess too, when I dine. 

The pulse is thine, 
And all those other bits that be 

There placed by thee ; 
The worts, the purslain, and the mess 

Of water-cress, 

















Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; 

And my content 
Makes those, and my beloved beet, 

To be more sweet. 
'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltless mirth, 
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, 

Spiced to the brink. 

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soils my land, 
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, 

Twice ten for one ; 
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 

Her egg each day; 
Besides, my healthful ewes to bear 

Me twins each year; 
The while the conduits of my kine 

Run cream for wine : 
All these, and better, thou dost send 

Me, to this end, — 
That I should render, for my part, 

A thankful heart; 
Which, fired with incense, I resign, 

As wholly thine ; — 
But the acceptance, that must be, 

My Christ, by Thee. 

— Robert Herrick. 




!• 



#a 




npHREE treasures hath a man in his life- 
A time, and these he begs at a woman's 
hands : A wife, a child, and a home. 

— Clarence Knox Aldis. 



syr. 



IT* 



?c T1Y HOME 



$2 




-•'•.-.. - . .. 



T^VO they miss me at home? do they miss 
LJ me? 

'Twould be an assurance most dear, 
To know that this moment some loved one 

Were saying, "I wish he were here;" 
To feel that the group at the fireside 

Were thinking of me as I roam; 
Oh, yes, 'twould be joy beyond measure 

To feel that they miss me at home! 



M 






When twilight approaches, the season 

That ever is sacred to song, 
Does some one repeat my name over, 

And sigh that I tarry so long 
And is there a chord in the music, 

That, missed when my voice is away, 
And a chord in the heart that awaketh 

Regret at my wearisome stay? 

Do they set me a chair near the table, 

When evening's home pleasures are nigh, 
When the candles are lit in the parlor, 

And the stars in the calm, azure sky? 
And when the "good-nights" are repeated, 

And all lay them down to their sleep, 
Do they think of the absent, and waft me 

A whispered "good-night" while they 
weep ? 

Do they miss me at home, do they miss me 
At morning, at noon, or at night? 

And lingers one gloomy shade round them 
That only my presence can light? 






11 








CO 

rtYMon 





Are joys less invitingly welcome, 
And pleasures less hale than before, 

Because one is missed from the circle, 
Because I am with them no more? 

— Caroline Aiherton Mason. 

THE voices of my home! — I hear them 
still! 
They have been with me through the 
dreamy night — 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depthsi with unalloyed 
delight ! 
I hear them still, unchanged; though some 

from earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — 
Wild silvery tones, that rang through 

days more bright! 
Have died in others, yet to me they come, 
Singing of boyhood back — the voices of 
my home ! 

— Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

"IV/fl" Y sad old heart is haunted 

^ A With ghosts of sights and sounds — 

Old tunes that once were chanted 

Within my old home's bounds. 
There creeps the gentle spirit 

Of her who gave me birth, 
'Mid memories to endear it — 

The sweetest of this earth! 

— George R. Garrison. 




H 













) 





MY HOME 



A ROUND me Life's hell of fierce ardors 
'**' burns. — 

When I come home, when I come home 
Over me Heaven with its starry heart yearns. 

When I come home, when I come home 
For a feast of Gods garnished, the palace of 

night 
At a thousand star-windows is throbbing 

with light. 
The city makes mirth ! but I know God hears 
The sobs in the dark, and the dropping of 

tears ; 
For I feel that He listens down Night's 

great dome 
When I come home, when I come home; 
Home, home, when I come home, 
Far i' the night when I come home. 



I walk under Night's triumphal arch 

When I come home, when I come home ; 
Exulting with life like a Conqueror's march, 

When I come home, when I come home. 
I pass by the rich-chambered mansions that 

shine, 
O'erflowing with splendor like goblets with 

wine: 
I have fought, I have vanquished the dragon 

of Toil, 
And before me my golden Hesperides smile ! 
And oh, but Love's flowers make rich the 

gloam, 
When I come home, when I come home. 




u 










O the sweet, merry mouths upturned to be 
kissed 
When I come home, when I come home ! 

How the younglings yearn from the hungry 
nest 
When I come home, when I come home ! 

My weary worn heart into sweetness is 
stirred, 

And it dances and sings like a singing Bird, 

On the branch nighest Heaven, — atop of 
my life : 

As I clasp my winsome, wooing Wife ! 

And her pale cheek with rich, tender pas- 
sion doth bloom 

When I come home, when I come home. 

Clouds furl off the shining face of my life 
When I come home, when I come home, 
And leave Heaven bare on her bosom, sweet 

Wife, 
When I come home, when I come home: 
With her brave smiling Energies, — Faith 

warm and bright, 
With Love glorified and serenely alight, 
With her womanly beauty and queenly 

calm 
She steals to my heart with a blessing of 

balm; 
And oh, but the wine of Love sparkles with 

foam 
When I come home, when I come home ! 

— Gerald Massey. 





\v 











i 



w 










< - 







nOME home. 

^ Would I could send my spirit o'er the 
deep, 
Would I could wing it like a hird to thee, 
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy 
sleep 
With these unwearying words of melody, 
Brother, come home. 

Come home. 
Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 
That beam in brightness but to gladden 
thine; 
Come where fond thoughts like holiest in- 
cense rise, 
Where cherished Memorv rears her altar's 
shrine. 

Brother, come home. 

Come home. 
Come to the hearthstone of thy earlier days, 
Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove. 
Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm 
rays, 
Come to the fireside circle of thy love. 
Brother, come home. 






^j 




Come home. 
It is not home without thee; the lone seat 
Is still unclaimed where thou wert wont 
to be; 
In every echo of returning feet 








w^ 



TSJg\r i . r /\1V 










In vain we list for what should herald 
thee. 

Brother, come home. 

— Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



M£?h/ 



TT'S rare to see the morning breeze, 
A Like a bonfire f rae the sea ; 
It's fair to see the burnie kiss 

The lip o' the flowery lea; 
An' fine it is on green hillside, 

Where hums the bonny bee; 
But rarer, fairer, finer far 

Is the Ingleside for me ! 

Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, 

The birds may fill the tree ; 
And haughs hae a' the scented ware 

That simmer growth can gie; 
But the canty hearth where cronies meet, 

An' the darling of our e'e, 
That makes to us a warl complete ; 

O the Ingleside for me ! 

— Hew Ainslee. 



m 



npo Happiness! A foreign port, we 
1 think, 

Toward which we proudly steer, 
Our sails all set, our bows afoam. 
Mere pleasure is the reef ahead, my lads. 
Helm down, haul taut the gear ! 
Our port of happiness is Home! 

— H. C. Chatfield-Taylor. 




%s\J 



MY HONE 



^ca 



&£ 




ET others seek for empty joys, 
' LJ At ball or concert, rout or play; 
Whilst, far from fashion's idle noise, 
Her gilded domes and trappings gay, 

I while the wintry eve away, — 
'Twixt book and lute the hours divide, 

And marvel how I e'er could stray 
From thee — my own Fireside! 

My own Fireside! Those simple words 

Can bid the sweetest dreams arise ! 
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords, 

And fill with tears of joy mine eyes! 

What is there my wild heart can prize 
That doth not in thy sphere abide, 

Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, 
My own — my own Fireside ! 

What care I for the sullen roar 

Of winds without that ravage earth; 

It doth but bid me prize the more 

The shelter of thy hallowed hearth; — 
To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth : 

Then let the churlish tempest chide, 
It cannot check the blameless mirth 

That glads my own Fireside! 








My refuge ever from the storm 

Of this world's passion, strife, and care ; 

Though thunder-clouds the sky deform, 
Their fury cannot reach me there — 
There all is cheerful, calm, and fair : 





$ ZQ 

TtY HOME 




S5\ 



to 



Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride, 

Hath never made its hated lair 
By thee — my own Fireside! 

Thy precincts are a charmed ring 

Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; 
Where life's vexations lose their sting, 

Where even grief is half subdued; 

And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. 
Then, let the pampered fool deride, 

I'll pay my debt of gratitude 
To thee — my own Fireside! 





Shrine of my household deities I 

Pair scene of Home's unsullied joys! 

To thee my burthened spirit flies, 

When fortune frowns, or care annoys: 
Thine is the bliss that never cloys, 

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried; 
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys 

To thee — my own Fireside ! 

Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, 

That bid my thoughts be all of thee, 
Thus ever guide my wandering feet 

To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ! 

Whate'er my future years may be; 
Let joy or grief my fate betide; 

Be still an Eden bright to me 
My own — my own Fireside ! 

— Alaric Alexander Watts. 





MY HON 



I; 














/^H, to be in England now that April's 
^^ there, 



And whoever wakes in England sees, some 

morning, unaware, 
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood 

sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard 

bough 
In England — now! 
And after April, when May follows 
And the white-throat builds, and all the 

swallows ! 
Hark, while my blossomed pear tree in the 

hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's 

edge — 
That's the wise thrush: he sings each song 

twice over 
Lest you should think he never could recap- 
ture 
The first fine careless rapture! 
And though the fields look rough with hoary 

dew, 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower — 
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 

— Robert Browning. 

TTOWEVER we toil, or wheresoever we 
A A wander, our fatigued wishes still recur 
to home for tranquillity. — Goldsmith. 







2? 




C&L 





The head must bow, and the back will have 
to bend, 
Wherever the darkey may go; 



X 



fYHOME 



rpHE sun shines bright in our old Ken- 
A tucky home; 

'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; 
The corntop's ripe and the meadow's in the 
bloom, 
While the birds make music all the day; 
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 

All merry, all happy, all bright; 
By'm by hard times come a-knockin' at the 
door, — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good- 
night ! 
Weep no more, my lady; O weep no more 
to-day ! 
We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky 

home, 
For our old Kentucky home far away. 



They hunt no more for the possum and the 
coon, 
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; 
They sing no more by the glimmer of the 
moon, 
On the bench by the old cabin door. 
The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, 

With sorrow, where all was delight; 
The time has come when the darkeys have to 
part : — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good-night ! 








A few more days, and the trouble all will 
end, 
In the field where the sugar-canes grow. 
A few more days for to tote the weary 
load, — 
No matter, 'twill never be light; 
A few more days till we totter on the 
road: — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good-night ! 
— Stephen Collins Foster. 

Z^IOOD-BY, old house! Thy tattered 
^* cloak 

Is fringed with moss and gray with smoke; 
Within thy walls we used to see 
A gaunt old wolf named Poverty ; 
Yet from thy rafters' dingy bars 
A ladder stretched up to the stars — 
For us and all the children. 

— Grace Duffie Boylan. 

rFIHE Altar of your Home; on which you 
A have nightly sacrificed some petty pas- 
sion, selfishness, or care, and offered up the 
homage of a tranquil mind, a trusting na- 
ture, and an overflowing heart; so that the 
smoke from this poor chimney has gone up- 
ward with a better fragrance than the richest 
incense that is burned before the richest 
shrines in all the gaudy temples of this 
world! 

— Charles Dickens. 




FlY HOI L 



' rpiS sweet to hear the watch-dog's hon- 

A est bark 
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw 

near home; 
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we 
come. — Lord Byron. 

CHUT in from all the world without, 
^ We sat the clean-winged hearth 

about, 
Content to let the north wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 
While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat; 
And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed. . . 
What matter how the night behaved? 
What matter how the north wind raved? 
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
Could quench our hearth- fire's ruddy glow! 
— John Greenleaf Whittier. 

A ND say, without our hopes, without our 
'**' fears, 

Without the home that plighted love en- 
dears, 
Without the smile from partial beauty won, 
Oh, what were man — a world without a 
sun! 

— Thomas Campbell. 



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M 



PIEl 



T BELIEVE in my Home. It isn't a rich 
home. It wouldn't satisfy some, but it 
contains all the jewels that cannot be pur- 
chased in the markets of the world. When 
I enter its secret chambers and shut out the 
world with its care, I am a lord. Its motto 
is service, its reward is love. There is no 
other spot in all the earth which fills its place, 
and Heaven can be only a larger Home, 
with a Father Who is all-wise and patient 
and tender. 

— Charles Stelzle. 

TTOME of our childhood! how affection 

clings 
And hovers round thee with her seraph 

wings! 
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn 

brown, 
Than fairest summits which the cedars 

crown! 
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze 
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas! 
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's 

sigh, 
For the heart's temple is its own blue sky ! 
— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

A SPOT where there is loud speech and 
*^^ quarreling may be a menagerie, but it 
can never be a home. 

— Alexander Maclean. 



(3 



to . w 

MY HON! 



f~\ FOR a ferryman to steer my yearning 
^-^ O'er easy waves to where my home 

is lying! 
Ever from mountains high it is returning, 
With frozen wings, faint unto death with 
flying. 










And oh, to sail in an easy vessel slowly 
Along a stream that rolls a silver hillow, 

That I might enter through a portal lowly, 
And lay my head down on a quiet pillow. 

There in a warm room would be mild light 
falling 
From evening candles on my hearthstone 
lonely, 
And at my breast a baby, laughing calling, 
And one soul in the whole world mine, 
mine only! 

— Jeihro Bichell. 
From the German of Hedwig Lachmann. 

HAVE a house in which to live, 
A Pleasant, and fair, and good, 
Its hearth is crowned with warmth and light, 

Its board with daintiest food. 
And I, when tired with care or doubt, 
Go in and shut my sorrows out. 

— Phoebe Cary. 

TVJ"AN makes the house and woman makes 
A the home. 

— Proverb. 






MY HOME 



ONG, long ago! oh, heart of youth un- 
"^ heeding, 
As speed the years with love and light 
aglow, 
And like a dream in memory receding, 

They swiftly, softly go. 
Ah! when the intervening clouds are lifted — 
The misty veil that hides them from my 
sight ! 
Then bygone scenes beneath the curtain 
rifted 
Gleam fair, as now — to-night. 

There is the dear old room, the firelight shin- 
ing 

On little stockings ranged in careful row; 
Hung by the anxious owners, hope inclin- 
ing, 

On Christmas long ago. 
In trundle bed and cot each fitful sleeper 

Is dream-disturbed and tosses to and fro 
Till lost in slumber, sinking deeper, deeper, 

With happiness aglow. 

What gleeful shouts and laughter wake the 
morning ! 
The "Merry Christmas" greetings linger 
sweet 
In heart and brain, the misty past adorning, 

The picture to complete. 
Each stocking yields its precious, trifling 
treasures, 
To curly pate and tot with hair of tow; 







firr hom 



Ah, happy days ! that saw such simple pleas- 
ures 
Such happiness bestow. 

With merry jest and quip and cheery chat- 
ter, 
In converse sweet and songs melodious 
flow, 
Till borne in state, embellishing the platter, 

The turkey enters slow. 
A glad home-coming time for ones world- 
weary, 
To feast beneath the mystic mistletoe, 
Where Love stood at the door with welcome 
cheery, 
On Christmas long ago. 

Oh, father, mother! names that leave me 
never, 
Thy faces follow me through weal and 
woe, 
As loving, sweet, and true as smiled they 
ever, 
On Christmas long ago. 
In vain I try the rising sobs to smother, 
My heart repressed so long asserts her 
right 
To tardy tears, to there await another, 
Another Christmas night. 

— Anne H. Woodruff. 

A FRIENDLY home is the best of 
"^ houses. — Latin Proverb. 



vanr-*V 



\A7"HEN skies are growing warm and 
VV bright, 

And in the woodland bowers 
The Springtime in her pale, faint robes 

Is calling up the flowers, 
When all with naked little feet 

The children in the morn 
Go forth, and in the furrows drop 

The seeds of yellow corn; 
What a beautiful embodiment 

Of ease devoid of pride 
Is the good old-fashioned homestead, 

With its doors set open wide ! 

But when the happiest time is come, 

That to the year belongs, 
When all the vales are filled with gold 

And all the air with songs; 
When fields of yet unripened grain, 

And yet ungarnered stores 
Remind the thrifty husbandman 

Of ampler threshing-floors, 
How pleasant, from the din and dust 

Of the thoroughfare aloof, 
Stands the old-fashioned homestead 

With steep and mossy roof! 

When home the woodsman plods with ax 

Upon his shoulder swung, 
And in the knotted apple tree 

Are scythe and sickle hung; 
When low about her clay-built nest 

The mother swallow trills, 






hi 



rft. 





MY [Off 



And decorously slow, the cows 

Are wending down the hills ; 
What a blessed picture of comfort 

In the evening shadows red, 
Is the good old-fashioned homestead 

With its bounteous table spread ! 

And when the winds moan wildly, 

When the woods are bare and brown, 
And when the swallow's clay-built nest 

From the rafter crumbles down; 
When all the untrod garden paths 

Are heaped with frozen leaves, 
And icicles, like silver spikes, 

Are set along the eaves ; 
Then when the book from the shelf is 
brought, 

And the firelights shine and play 
In the good old-fashioned homestead, 

Is the farmer's holiday! 

Whether the brook be fringed with flowers, 

Or whether the dead leaves fall, 
Or whether the air be full of songs, 

Or never a song at all, 
Or whether the vines of the strawberries 

Or frosts through the grasses run, 
Or whether it rain or whether it shine, 

Is all to me as one, 
For bright as the brightest sunshine 

The light of memory streams 
Round the old-fashioned homestead 

Where I dreamed my dream of dreams ! 

— Alice Cary. 



fMYHOME 









rpHREE words fall sweetly on my ear 
-"■ As music from an angel lyre, 
That bid my spirit spurn control 

And upward to its source aspire ; 
The sweetest sounds to mortals given 
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven. 
— William Goldsmith Browne. 



T REMEMBER, I remember 
A The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day, 
JBut now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away! 

— Thomas Hood. 



SPHERE is no place like the old place 

where you and I were born ! 
Where we lifted first our eyelids on the 

splendors of the morn, 
From the milk-white breast that warmed us, 

from the clinging arms that bore, 
Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that 
will look on us no more! 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



E 






AST, West, 
Hame's best. 

— Scotch Proverb. 





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